


Last Breath

by IFrozeYourCookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Use, F/M, Greg is a Saint, M/M, No Happy Endings in This House, Overdose, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sherlock is a Mess, Sorry Not Sorry, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 05:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IFrozeYourCookie/pseuds/IFrozeYourCookie
Summary: When John and Mary started their new life as Watsons, building up a domesticity by having a family, Sherlock was slowly losing grip on him and was falling to the ground. One solution of him to cope was drug use, and in fatalistic amount. Greg, being one to always check on Sherlock even if its just to refer him to a case, noticed his absence and went to 221B only to be torn apart inside.





	Last Breath

The second the vows were spoken, it ripped through his heart as swiftly as the knife cut through the wedding cake. Of course was he had shown the public was a smile. A _painful _fucking smile. 'I'm happy for him', was what he spoke most of all the whole wedding and reception, and it was true. He was indeed happy for his best friend, John Watson and his newlywed wife. But he had hoped that it took a different turn. Though in all candor, that will never happened. Sherlock Holmes, as always, will end up last and most of all, alone. 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me', was now a mantra for him, making him feel less like a failure to actually be wed by—no, no. Don't think about that.

It all started with an innocent puff of smoke, a drag of nicotine after a long streak of staving from it. The wedding night was when he took out the cigarette stick from his coat, having to muster enough energy from it to even step into the flat that's now officially just _his_. No longer of the detective and the blogger. It's just him now. 

He will say this again and again, but the first drag of smoke will always be the the most satisfying one. And it made him wonder why he even stopped smoking in the first place? That was fucking relieving and the little dose was helping him, even in the slightest that it made him forget why he was even standing on the sidewalk, backing the golden label of 221B. That was when he saw a pair of bright lights of a car he knew all too much slowing down next to him.

"Why aren't you at the wedding, Giles?" Sherlock asked, very much annoyed by the grey-haired man stepping out of the car.  
"It's not Giles—Why am _I_ not at the wedding? You're John's best man. I should be the one asking you that" Greg mused and only just noticed the burning end of the cigarette between Sherlock's delicate fingers. He really could only internally shake his head at that because he suspected, no, _knew_, that the wedding would affect Sherlock somehow. Platonically or romantically, Sherlock almost never got close to anyone like he did with John, and to have him move out for the sake of a calmer, more domestic life must hurt. Because he was chosen over, when Sherlock had always chose John over everything even himself.

"I've done my part. Surely I could go back home, Graham" he replied as a matter of factly, and shamelessly took another long drag in front of Greg, who was one of the people who kept him off of it long ago.

"Sherlock. You know that John still cares for you even if he's married, right? It's just marriage"  
"It's the end of an era. Both Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft seemed to agree with that" he admitted, and the reality hit him once again. He needed more than just one stick of the cigarette.

"Why are you even here? If it's to pity me then you can be on your way" he grunted before stepping on the cigarette once its thrown to the floor, now fishing for the keys in his coat pocket.  
"I was just taking a night ride and then I saw you here, I thought I'd update you that the man we caught at the wedding was now behind bars until the court date" he said, trying to keep the conversation as light as he could, but that seemed like just a fever dream.

"Okay, good. That's it? I'm sure that's just it. Bye bye" he blurted out and his desperation to end the conversation just peeking through every crack of his breaking facade. Oh dear, the sight of him was saddening. He was desperately holding himself together, it's a matter of time before he broke down on the ground without no one else to glue him back together.

Greg didn't even had a room for any more words when Sherlock hastily took out the keys to his flat and practically slammed the door shut when he made his way in. Subconsciously, Greg had the growing weight on his shoulder, because at this point and moment, he might just be the only support system Sherlock had, because unlike Mrs. Hudson, he had witness the ugly truth of the danger nights.

* * *

The voices rarely ever stopped now, and he had to take more than what he used to to keep the noises to a minimum. _That_ was how bad it got. It's only been three weeks since the dreaded day, a.k.a the wedding of the Watsons. Greg said that John still cared about him but to this date, he hadn't bothered to either visit, or even text Sherlock._ 'Care about him' my ass._ Now he was partly convinced that he was just a pitstop for John to distract himself with because of his lonely life. Maybe he was just a tool for John, too. Now that he wasn't experiencing the post-war depression, Sherlock was thrown like a banana peel when he found a decent lady the second he was roaming around like a fully functioning man.

Mrs. Hudson daren't come upstairs anymore, only doing so when she wanted to try and coax Sherlock into eating something, _anything_, on a daily basis. She was scared for him, worried too, a lot because at this point she was like a biological mother for him. Oh she was scared that at one point, she'd lose him. And truth be told, her fear might come true.

15.36pm. The detective inspector visited the consulting detective. Because in the past days he'd been visiting, Sherlock wasn't too good. At all. He was the definition of an emotional wreck in every sense of the word.

The first week, he walked in on Sherlock high on cocaine. That very weekend, he got noted that someone spotted a scrawny man sending off a package to 221B, to which Sherlock himself had claimed. Second week, there was three or four different types of opioids in that flat was was regularly used, known mainly because Greg _had_ to prompt a drugs bust for his sake. Earlier that week, the drugs bust attempt really was of no use because Sherlock, who was practically living in lowkey wealth, could always acquire a new batch of drugs. Today was his routine visit to see how the man was.

Upon arrival, Mrs. Hudson had fussed about his presence, thanking him because she was worried about Sherlock. The door was locked, and he hadn't been making as much noise that day. Of course, being the man he was, he tried to reassure her that maybe Sherlock was just sleeping the effects of the drugs off. Maybe he decided to stop taking it and was just working through the withdrawal with the easiest solution on hand—sleep.

He gave Mrs. Hudson a small smile and a soft pat on her frail arm before making his way upstairs, two steps at a time. The very second his knuckle had hit the door of the living room, he heard a loud thud. Surely that wasn't his knock, right? He barely put an effort in the knock and it shouldn't have made such a loud sound. Now he was panicking. Mrs. Hudson knew that something was wrong, and she had the right to think so.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Open the door!" Greg raised his voice to make sure it reached wherever Sherlock was on the other side, frantically turning the locked doorknob.

Sherlock had heard the familiar voice that visited him all those days just outside the door, but he had fallen over when his knees gave out. He took a little too much that day, his desperation got the best of him. The need to shut his mind off from self loathing was too much that day and that had him injecting, consuming an amount that'd supposedly could fight those off. But little did he know, that it might just have a more permanent effect. In his mind, he was terrified, but also partly anticipating the end. Maybe it's for the best.

Just when he was about to let the fate wash over him, the door swung open in a force that could only indicate that someone had kicked it open. Fuck—

"Sherlock—Jesus what happened?" he rushed to Sherlock's side and knelt before him, taking his head on his lap to try and see if there's much he could do. His pupils were blown wide, unsteady balance, difficulty of breathing paired with chest pain, his body was undeniably high in temperature, he was profusely shaking and his lips were starting to turn purplish blue. God no, fuck no.

With whatever energy he still had, Sherlock did try to reach out to Greg with his shaking hand, managing to weakly grasp onto his lower arm with the cold fingertips. He was breathing heavily, and his chest hurt so much to the point he really wanted to be a child again, whining to his mother in pain as if he just fell and cut his knees. But no, he was clinging onto life, and he couldn't whine to Death of how he didn't want to go yet. His two verdigris eyes were scanning Greg over and over again, having to blink a few times because his focus kept going out.

Tears. There were tears. He wasn't sure if that was his own that was flowing down his face, or Greg's that was falling onto the consultant's face. He was confused about that part but somehow for the other part of the tragic story unraveling in the room, not so much. Suddenly, he was more than happy he took too much, Life was painful. He was just freeing himself.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock? You could have called me or something" Greg had choked out, saying it between sobs that had no regards of being controlled anymore. Sherlock didn't answer him, but for once in weeks, his face was calm, and he was smiling back at Greg despite the tears trailing down his angular face.

"I'm just glad you're here, Greg" he said in barely a whisper, but even with the sobs, the room was dead silent and enough so to echo Sherlock's word out loud. And that broke Greg.

_You idiot, of all the times you decided to use my real name was now._ It wasn't a random thought. It was a harsh slap. Because if he had used his real name then that just meant this was real, and this was happening. Even with Sherlock's head in his arms, he was slowly losing him. He was helpless, and when he tried to call an ambulance, Sherlock just begged with his eyes not to. God, Sherlock. His willingness to go despite the overdose being an accident had hurt more than it should. But if that was what he wanted, he was glad to be there for the man.

Mrs. Hudson had came in moments after, calling up an ambulance without a second thought before she rushed to Sherlock, who was half lidded as if keeping his eyes open was too much work. There was no other sounds than sobs and cries in the eeriely still living room of 221B, and it receded into silence when neither of them could feel any more rise of Sherlock's chest.

They couldn't even argue about it. Because Sherlock looked calm and content like that, leaving with the sight of the people who had been there for him in the depths of life. And he left with a vow from Greg, that he won't ever forget the detective who always intentionally mispronounce his name. No tears of sympathy. Just good memories to revisit. He made a vow, one that didn't break Sherlock more.


End file.
